


Have to Take You In

by achray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Fix-it, Gen, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-The Sign of Three, Season 3 Spoilers, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four brief alternate endings for 'The Sign of Three'. In which whatever else Sherlock is up to immediately after the wedding, he is *not taking drugs in 221B on his own* (as he implicitly does in ACD canon at the end of 'The Sign of Four').  I will FIX IT. Chapters 1 and 2 are gen, friendship, chapter 3 is slash or pre-slash, chapter 4 is explicit John/Mary/Sherlock: each can be read separately or together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Robert Frost:  
> 'Home is the place where, when you have to go there,/ They have to take you in.'

Mycroft opened the door in pyjamas and dressing gown. The length of time between Sherlock ringing the bell and his answering it clearly indicated that he had come from his bedroom. To do him credit, however, he didn’t look even slightly surprised or ruffled. He looked Sherlock up and down and raised one eyebrow. Sherlock scowled at him.

“That bad?” said Mycroft. He stood aside to let Sherlock into his hideous, ostentatious mansion. “How did you get here, by the way?” He peered into the driveway.

“I drove. Left the car outside your local. Oh, don’t give me that look, I’m entirely sober.”

“Obviously,” said Mycroft. “No, I was simply trying to recall the name of the Chief Constable on the Gloucestershire force. I assume we can expect a charge of vehicular theft by the morning?”

Sherlock sighed deliberately, taking off his coat and tossing it over one of the chairs in the hall. He felt marginally more like himself already.

“Actually I borrowed it from a murderer. I doubt he’ll be needing it any time soon. I’ll clear it with Geoff.”

“Greg,” Mycroft corrected, absent-mindedly. His brows had come together. “Well. More excitement than expected, I take it. One of the catering staff, I assume? Major…Sholto as target?”

“Photographer,” said Sherlock. “Sholto’s alive, we solved it in time. Stabbing, belt…” He waved a hand in a loose gesture. His momentary smugness faded. He was tired, bone-deep tired; he shouldn’t be, it was barely 1am and the drive had been a piece of cake, but abruptly he wanted to sit down in one of Mycroft’s uncomfortable carved chairs and stay there for a very long time.

“Hmm,” said Mycroft. “I thought you might – stop by. I brought down some of the twenty-year old Armagnac.” He gestured, and Sherlock followed him hopelessly into the vast and chilly living-room. One of the tall lamps was switched on, by the fireplace, creating a small pool of light around the wingback chairs there. Sherlock trailed after Mycroft and sat down. He blinked. Mycroft clinked things at a side table and passed him a glass. They both watched Sherlock’s hand tremble as he took it.

“So,” said Mycroft, sitting opposite him and crossing his legs. “A wedding interrupted by attempted murder. You do like to court media attention, Sherlock. It wasn’t that, though. And not your speech, either. I hear it was delightful. Moved everyone to tears.”

“Recording it, were we?” Sherlock took a mouthful of the brandy, more for something to do than because he wanted the blurring of alcohol. It was very, very good brandy. He supposed he should appreciate the gesture.

“A little bird told me.” Mycroft’s gaze was like a blade. Sherlock felt his mouth twitch.

“Ah,” said Mycroft softly. “Last-minute revelations. The patter of tiny feet. Not really surprising, though, is it? I warned you, brother dear.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. He thought of all the long dark miles between here and Baker St, of the inlaid box carefully stowed in its summer hiding place in the flue, of the little click the catch made on opening it. His throat was tight.

Mycroft uncrossed his legs, shifting minutely. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “As it happens, I have a few files home that might interest you. Routine work, of course, but one or two minor points worthy of your consideration. If you’ll be staying up in any case….”

Sherlock opened his eyes and watched Mycroft walk across the expanse of carpet to a small desk against the wall. He switched on the desk lamp, illuminating a laptop and a stack of manila folders. He straightened their edges, fussily, and stretched down to plug the laptop into a socket in the wall.

“The bed in the spare room is also made up, of course. You know where everything is.”

Sherlock studied his profile in the soft light. Mycroft was aging, slightly, the lines around his eyes that little more pronounced, his cheeks hollower than they had been a couple of years ago.

“Very good brandy,” he said.

Mycroft straightened. “Yes, isn’t it.” They regarded each other.

“I have to Skype with China in four hours,” said Mycroft, glancing at the grandfather clock nearest him.

“Don’t forget to leave time for your morning workout.”

Mycroft tightened his dressing gown cord. “If you have everything you need…”

Sherlock nodded. “Good night.”

Mycroft hesitated for a perceptible instant, and then headed for the door. As he passed Sherlock he dropped a hand onto his shoulder and gripped it for a heartbeat, no more than a second, and then the door closed behind him.

Sherlock set his glass down gently on the side table. He swallowed. The ache in his chest had eased, but it was still there. He should check his phone for messages. No, he shouldn’t.

He rubbed his forehead for a minute, ran a hand through his hair, and then went to check the files. 


	2. Lestrade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assumed for the purposes of this that Lestrade escorted Small back to London to be dealt with by Scotland Yard.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed, insistently. He looked at it: Lestrade. Presumably that was what the knocking was about. He weighed the odds of Lestrade going away and coming back with others, grimaced, and answered.

“What?”

“I’m on your doorstep.”

“So?”

“So let me in, you bastard.”

“Why?”

“Because you caught the murderer, we’re celebrating.”

“ _Attempted_ murderer.” Sherlock went and looked through the curtains, frowning. Lestrade was standing in the street, looking back at him. Maybe an hour had passed since he’d made it back to Baker St from the godforsaken hole where Mary and John had insisted their wedding should take place, in the one antiquated minicab the locals idiotically described as a ‘taxi’: it probably wasn’t much beyond midnight.

“Anyway, you owe me. Thanks to you picking him up there’s a bloody expensive hotel room in Gloucestershire that I’m paying for and not using.”

“You got the credit, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, a bit. Look, are you letting me in, or will I go home and drink alone? Only finished processing him half an hour ago, and the pubs were all shut.” He waved the carrier bag he was holding.

Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering manner, hung up, and went to do so.

“Fucking hate weddings,” said Lestrade, once he’d ensconced himself in John’s chair and cracked open a beer. Sherlock had taken one for the look of it, but he had no intention of drinking it. Just contemplating the idea of beer made him feel slightly ill.

“Most depressing things in the world. Other than Christmas, of course.”

“Mmm,” said Sherlock.

“You OK?” Lestrade gave him a shrewd look.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that shit. You walked out early and came back to hide. I’d have done the same.” He stretched. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking of using this evening.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Sherlock held his gaze, unobtrusively pushing the inlaid box slightly further under his chair with one foot.

“Yeah, right. Anyway, changing the topic, anything happen after I left? I’m assuming you didn’t pull the fit bridesmaid.” Lestrade chuckled a moment at his own humour.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Did John send you here?”

Lestrade coughed. “He did – send a quick text.”

Sherlock stood up and paced to the window, his back to Lestrade. Inexcusable that he hadn’t worked that out immediately. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He wondered if Lestrade knew, knew about Mary. Probably he shouldn’t say anything.

“Think he might have been having some problems getting through to you, wanted me to check you were – home safe, and that,” Lestrade said.

“Home,” said Sherlock. He couldn’t help the bitterness.

“It’s hard,” Lestrade said. He sounded tired. Sherlock heard him swallow. “Losing someone, watching them walk away. You’re not the only one who’s been there, Sherlock.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “And that makes it better, does it? More _common_?” He turned round to face Lestrade, folding his arms. Lestrade was slumped with his elbows on his knees, watching his hands twist his beer bottle idly.

“Let’s go out,” said Sherlock abruptly, before he could change his mind.

“Out? Out where?”

“Out of this flat. Lovely summer evening, let’s get some air. Got any cigarettes?”

“You want to go for a _walk_? It’s 12:30am!”

“Have you got any cigarettes, or not?”

Lestrade sighed, and downed the rest of his beer. “No, and now I fucking need one. Where’s your nearest 24 hour shop? You’re going to walk me round London all night, talking about your favourite crime scenes, is that it? On second thoughts, don’t answer that.” He stood up in a resigned way.

“I- ” said Sherlock. He looked around the flat, its silence, discarded wedding detritus in drifts from the table to the floor, plans pinned to the wall, dishes from – from their last meal here still in the sink, unwashed, the box, soot-covered, under the chair with his fingerprints all over it.

“You need some air,” said Lestrade, almost gently. “Come on, then, let’s get out of here.”


	3. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much fail at fixing it here. So much. Don't panic. I'm going to drink over the weekend and write porn for the final bit.

Sherlock heard the footsteps on gravel, and recognized them, before his name was called. He hunched into his coat. What was the _matter_ with this horrible little village, one taxi-driver and he was apparently in the pub, how was it even possible in this day and age? He should have stolen that bloody car.

“Sherlock!” said John, coming up beside him. How had John even seen him, standing in the evergreen shadows at the top of the drive?

“Are you…leaving? You’re staying in the hotel tonight, right?” He sounded pathetically concerned for Sherlock’s well-being.

“Have to get back to London,” said Sherlock airily. “Cases to solve, things to do. You know how much I hate weddings.”

“Your last few months as a full-time wedding planner really gave me that impression, yeah.”

Sherlock looked away from him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dancing?” he said to the rhododendron.

“I danced with Mary. She’s doing the conga with the bridesmaids right now, it’s a bit scary. Thought I should clear the floor.”

“Right,” said Sherlock. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He always had things to say to John, always, but his mind was searching and coming up entirely blank.

He could hear John shuffling minutely beside him: nervous, of course, not surprising given the evening’s revelations.

“Your taxi’s not here, is it.”

“Yes, well-spotted.” Why would John not just _go away_ – Sherlock had spent the whole day on his best behaviour, or at least making the effort, and now all he wanted, almost his only longing, was to get back to Baker St, to get _out of here_ –

“Only if you’re hanging around for a bit, I wondered if you wanted – this is a bit embarrassing – “ John half-laughed, and Sherlock could tell without looking round that he was rubbing the back of his neck, abashed, “but, you know, you put all that effort into teaching me, and now we’re all dressed up – OK.” He took a breath. “You love dancing. And I’m thinking you didn’t want to dance with anyone here, or maybe in public, and that’s fine, no problem, but you can’t just leave. I mean, everyone has to dance at my wedding, right? So… maybe you’d like to dance with…”

Sherlock turned his head and frowned at him. John looked embarrassed but determined.

“With me,” he said, on a breath. “We might not get the chance to do this again. Lovely summer night, music playing. Come on, one go round and then you can piss off home if you still feel like it.”

Sherlock scrutinized him, frustrated. Men didn’t dance with their male friends at weddings, not proper dancing. Did they? Was this a normal request? Was it not? He didn’t understand, he would never understand all this business of ‘mates’, and friends, and what was and wasn’t allowed. He’d tried to write down the rules once, but they were infuriatingly vague. He’d written six pages of notes and then burned them, one by one, on the afternoon when John had been off sampling cakes with Mary.

John was looking at him with – with fondness. And exasperation. A familiar look. He pursed his lips, which meant he was about to say something more, possibly if not probably to withdraw his offer.

“Fine,” said Sherlock.

John seemed surprised, why would he seem surprised, had it been a joke, was Sherlock supposed to laugh now?

“OK. OK, that’s – good,” John said. “Come on, if we go round the side there’s a lawn there…” He pointed and then set off, Sherlock following him across the damp grass, leaving tracks. Anyone looking out of the windows could have seen them. He was going to miss his taxi, if it showed up. He had a moment of wondering if John was doing this on purpose, forcing him to stay here, knowing what Sherlock had hidden in the flat a few weeks ago for nights when, just perhaps, everything would be too much.

They reached the side of the building. The curtains were drawn here; they were behind the small platform for the speakers, and the music was muffled by curtains but still loud, blasting out from open windows. People were drunkenly singing along, it sounded like. The patch of lawn here was mostly in shadow, what light there was cast the lines of John’s face into sharp relief.

“Do you really need that coat?” said John, amused. “It’s _warm_ , look.” He spread his arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he shrugged off the coat and set it carefully down on the grass.

“Right, then,” said John. “God, Mary’ll kill me, she’d _love_ to see us dancing together.” He waved Sherlock closer, smiling, guileless. “Here.”

Sherlock felt awkward. In their lessons, they’d never…He had guided John into position, modeled the movements, once or twice taken his hand to show him how it was done. That was all, that was it.

John, concentrating, arranged them in a loose hold. “I’ll lead,” he said, decisively.

Sherlock thought he ought to say something amusing in response to this, but he couldn’t come up with anything appropriate. Tired, he was tired, that was what it must be, it had certainly been a tiring day.

John was nodding his head to the music, counting – Sherlock didn’t recognize the song at all, it certainly wasn’t a waltz – but John said, under his breath, ‘1, 2, 3, and- “ and he started to move. Sherlock followed him automatically, his fingers loose in John’s hand. John’s other hand was round his waist. They weren’t quite in time with the music, but they were dancing, moving together round the darkened lawn. John’s brow was furrowed in concentration, watching their feet; he misstepped once and trod on Sherlock’s toe, and huffed a quick laugh.

Sherlock watched John. The dim light gleamed across his hair when they turned. The fine lines around his eyes were crinkled in concentration. His hand was warm, curved around Sherlock, under his jacket. Perhaps slightly above average temperature. He’d been drinking, but he wasn’t yet drunk.

The music stopped and they came to a halt, but instead of dropping his hand and moving away quickly, John left his hands where they were, squeezing Sherlock’s when he made a movement to pull away. Without the swing of the steps they were very close together. The next song started, something slower.

John tipped his head back, looking up at Sherlock. “Thank you,” he said.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He wanted to move away, yet he didn’t. “You’re – umm – almost passable. Almost.”

“Yeah,” said John. He took in a breath. “Actually I mean thank you for this, of course, teaching me so I wouldn’t feel like a prat out there, but also thank you for – not.”

Sherlock blinked. John’s fingers on his side curled against him, and he shivered at the contact.

“Not – I don’t understand,” he said.

“I know,” said John, under his breath; Sherlock dipped his head towards him, to hear. He sounded rueful, and a little sad. “Thank you for not - pushing. Even if I was, a bit. Thank you for – for not doing this – ” and he stretched up and kissed Sherlock on the mouth, gently.

Sherlock didn’t move. The kiss lasted perhaps two seconds, but it was enough to catalogue a great many things, things that he’d need to process, to file, to enumerate. John had stepped back from him. He let his hand fall.

“Didn’t mean to break you again,” said John. “Are you OK?” He sounded genuinely worried.

Sherlock shook his head, half a nod, half not. He licked his lips.

“Sorry,” said John. He scrubbed at his head. “God, I’m sorry, that was – I don’t know, I couldn’t see you go without saying _something_ – I love Mary, and I hope to God I always will, I would never do anything to hurt her, but you have to know that I – You’re my best friend. But it’s a bit more complicated than that, because you’re…I would’ve. If you’d tried. And it would have been a bad idea, it would’ve ruined everything and look, I’m saying you were right, even if you didn’t know what you were doing. Thank you. For being sensible for both of us. For letting me have – all this” and he gestured expansively, encompassing the wedding and the sunlit day and Mary and the cells unfurling within her, unstoppable.

“It’s – fine,” said Sherlock. He wasn’t sure what he was saying, but John seemed to accept it. He nodded, serious, and then he gave Sherlock a quick pat on the shoulder.

“I have to get back,” he said. “Janine was looking for you, you know. And Molly. If you come back in – ”

“Not to dance,” said Sherlock. He swallowed. “I’ll – stay in the hotel, though.”

“Good,” said John. “Good, that’s great, we’ll see you in the morning, then?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, and watched him walk away.

He needed a cigarette, he needed an entire pack of cigarettes, and he knew exactly which guests had them in their discarded coats in the cloakroom. He’d slip in and get some, go for a walk. Start filing. John had kissed him. He _hadn’t_ known. How had he not known? But it didn’t matter, the not knowing. John had felt that, had wanted that. Sherlock didn’t even know if he himself wanted it, if he would have said yes, or no. For now, for this moment, it was enough that John had given him this little piece of knowledge, of interest. Something to slot into all their past meetings and revolve them in a new light, maybe regret, maybe gladness, that this had been preserved as possibility, not success, nor failure. Either. It would take all night to consider this, but he had time. He picked up his coat, swung it over his arm, and followed John, slowly.  


	4. John and Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised. Really nothing but porn. I wrote this very fast. (And not very sober). Always happy to have corrections pointed out. Also about to write something about this fic on tumblr, and you're always welcome to come and talk to me there if you aren't already. :)

It was well after midnight when Sherlock got back to his hotel room. There were a few people still drinking in the bar, including Mrs Hudson – he raised his eyebrows a fraction at that – but most of the wedding guests had clearly given up after nearly twelve hours, and had staggered off to bed. Sherlock hadn’t intended to come back. When he couldn’t get an answer from the local taxi service, he’d walked through the village until he saw the taxi outside the pub. One look inside The Fox and Hounds had confirmed that there was no chance the taxi driver would be fit to take anyone to London that night. No trains, no buses, no other taxi firm responding to his calls. He’d have had to steal a car.

He’d thought about it, thought about driving to Mycroft’s house and facing the inevitable gloating, or about driving himself to London. He’d promised John and Mary. If he went back to Baker St, on his own – he disliked admitting it, even to himself, but he wasn’t sure he could resist temptation. He wasn’t sure he would even make a token effort. And now, perhaps, he had more of a reason to: if anything happened, and John and Mary needed him, and he was incapacitated by his own folly….No. He’d bought a pack of cigarettes instead and walked through the village and down the dark country lanes, setting his mind very determinedly to work on an unsolved case.

He turned the key in his room door, opened it and stopped dead. The bedside light was on, and John was sitting in an armchair beside the bed, under the window. He’d lost his tie and shoes and unbuttoned his waistcoat, but was otherwise fully clothed.

“What – ” said Sherlock, his mind running through panicked possibilities – illness, injury, God, he shouldn’t have let them out of his sight for an instant this evening –

John put a finger to his lips and nodded towards the bed. Mary was asleep on top of it, under a coverlet. Her hair was loose, her makeup removed, and she seemed to be wearing nightclothes. Sherlock blinked at her, not understanding.

“Come in,” said John, quietly.

Sherlock closed the door and stood just inside the room, frowning. There was something here that he wasn’t getting.

“A problem with your room?” he said, matching the level of John’s tone. “I don’t need to sleep, you can take this one.”

“No problem,” said John. He glanced at Mary and away with a private, amused smile. “We’re, ah – we thought we’d wait for you here. Hoped you’d come back. Though I was about to give up on you and go to sleep too, don’t know what the hell you’ve been doing out there.”

Sherlock looked at Mary again, and then John. He was reluctant to admit that he had no idea what was going on. If it wasn’t danger, then what? He was _tired_ , he’d been supposing that he might genuinely sleep, after two nights thinking about his speech, thinking about John, John and Mary.

John leant forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees. His movements were a little loose, not the easiness of being properly drunk, but on the way there.

“Do you know what Mary said to me, the morning after our stag night?”

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. This was not getting to the point.

“She said ‘I can’t believe you didn’t even snog him.’” John’s mouth curled up, and he grinned at the bed. “She’s amazing, she’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. She knew all about me, you see, even when – ”

John was still speaking, but Sherlock could barely hear him. He pulled a slang dictionary from the library shelves in his mind palace, frantically riffing through the section under ‘s’: no, chances of an alternate interpretation under 1%. He rated John’s tone against his catalogue of John joking, pleading, telling Sherlock that he was the best man he’d ever known – here he identified teasing, affection, humour directed at himself; conclusion, not joking. A rapid analysis of body language suggested the same. John had genuinely said – what was he saying?

 “ – and she said that I had to find out, that she wasn’t going to marry me not knowing if I’d suddenly up and throw myself at you. I was meant to give it a go, on the stag night. But then, I don’t know, I was nervous, I’d a bit too much to drink. And that client came in – God, that was a fuck-up. But Mary and I agreed. I’ve – _we’ve_ – got to know, before we head off tomorrow…so…here we are.”

John cocked his head and smiled at Sherlock as though this were all entirely self-explanatory. 

“Sherlock?” he said. His smile faded. “Sherlock, are you OK? Oh, shit, I should have woken up Mary to talk to you.”

Sherlock wet his mouth, and swallowed. Do not leap to conclusions, he said to himself. He became aware that his back was against the door, braced against it, in fact.

“Sherlock?” said John, more gently. “I’m really bad at this, but do you understand what I’m trying to say to you?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and closed it. Then he tried again.

“I’m not – sure,” he said.

“You’re not sure you understand, or you’re not sure you want – umm – what I’m suggesting?”

Sherlock studied the curtain fabric, the carpet, his shoes and the wardrobe door. His heartrate was unduly fast.

“I don’t know what you’re suggesting,” he said, fast. It was very tempting to turn around and flee, but he seemed to be frozen in place.

“OK,” said John. “OK. Right. Here goes. I want – I want _you_. I mean, as in sex. I wanted to – try that. But there’s never been a chance – and I didn’t realize that Mary would be OK with it, and obviously I wouldn’t have, if – Sherlock? You look like you’ve gone – offline again?”

Sherlock gave himself a mental shake. He put one hand into his hair and pulled at it. John stood up, looking concerned, and Mary stirred on the bed.

“John?” she said. “What’re you….?” She yawned, blinked, pushed herself up a bit and saw them. Sherlock quickly smoothed down his hair. He had no idea what expression was on his face, but it felt hot.

“Sherlock’s back,” said John. He shot Sherlock a complicated look, with worry and tension and something darker that Sherlock couldn’t quite parse, and then sat down beside Mary.

“Oh!” said Mary, pushing herself up more, till she was sitting on the bed with her arms round her knees. “Better wake up properly, then.” She smiled broadly at Sherlock. “Have you had a – chat?” she said to John, leaning sideways against him and yawning again.

“Sort of,” said John. “We were just – “

Mary rolled her eyes. “You mean, no, not really. You men are all hopeless. Sherlock, you look petrified, I’m so sorry. Look, maybe you could take off your coat and – sit down here? You’re _looming_ a bit.” She patted the bed.

Sherlock gazed at her helplessly. For some reason he always, always did what Mary said, even when there had been that incident at the florist – it was John’s fault of course, it was because John wanted her to be happy. She raised her eyebrows at him and he shrugged out of his coat, clumsily. He was _never_ clumsy. He let it fall on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed gingerly, across one corner, brows drawn together. He wouldn’t have thought that John and Mary would tease him, on this topic, on this night, but after some of the things he’d done to John in the past...

“John?” prompted Mary.

“Oh, right,” said John. “Umm.” He took a deep breath. “Sherlock. Umm. On the dancefloor, when I said – when I said there were limits. Well, when we realized you’d left, we had another conversation – we talk about you _all the time_ , you have no fucking clue how much we’ve been talking about this – and we decided that…”

“We decided that, in private, we’d do what was best for us,” said Mary. “Sod limits. But Sherlock – John’s never said anything to you because he thought you’d be uncomfortable with the idea, so if you’re not interested – “

“Yeah,” said John, leaning towards Sherlock and speaking more urgently, “if you’re not, Sherlock, if I – we’ve – got this totally wrong, then just tell us to fuck off and we’ll forget this ever happened, we’ll never talk about it again. It won’t ruin anything, it won’t matter at all.”

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, and took an odd comfort in doing so. There was a strange sensation in his chest, fear and something else, something new.

“You’re asking me to be involved in sex,” he said, pleased to note that his voice came out more evenly than he’s expected. “With – with both of you?”

“Anything you want,” John said quickly. “Whatever you want.”

He sounded so anxious that Sherlock lifted his head to glare at him. “I have had sex before, you know. With a variety of people. I’m not some…blushing virgin.”

“And did you like it?” said Mary.

Damn it, how had John managed to find the one woman in London who could ask exactly the right question? Sherlock grimaced. “Not…exactly,” he said.

“You don’t _like_ it?” said John.

Sherlock glared at him some more. “It always seemed like a lot of effort for minimal reward. Unpleasant, messy and unnecessary.”

“Oh, right, you’re above such things.”

“John,” said Mary, warning.

“Sherlock Holmes – “ and John was shifting towards him, reaching out to hold him by the lapel of his jacket. His face had gone very determined, eyes glittering. “I swear to God, Mary and me are going to do our best to change your mind. Give us tonight, and if you still feel the same way in the morning, no harm done. If you want us to stop, say so, but otherwise – “

“Mary and _I_ ,” said Sherlock, mouth gone dry.

“You tosser,” said John fondly, and he slid a few inches closer and kissed him.

Sherlock had been kissed before, though he’d never initiated it, and he hadn’t much enjoyed it. Wet, invasive and offputting. On the rare occasions he’d felt, momentarily, inclined to have sex with someone, he’d preferred to skip to the main event. But this was John, and he tasted familiar, of the same champagne that Sherlock had been drinking, earlier, and of himself, as Sherlock had always imagined he would.

John wasn’t dull. John was endlessly surprising, and this, this was _astonishing_ – John taking the lead, encouraging him to part his lips, to let himself be explored. There was an instant where Sherlock was caught by the new data streaming through his brain, the alerts it was setting off: for a moment he was in the living room at Baker St with John and Mary, ready to interrogate them. Then, rather than proceeding, the scene flickered and started to spin apart, he closed his eyes, and he fell out of his head back onto the bed, into his body, which was responding with an array of symptoms just to being kissed like this.

“You taste of cigarettes,” said John, breaking off for a breath and wrinkling his nose.

Sherlock blinked at him, entirely unsettled. He felt flushed and hot all over, half-hard already from this, from John’s mouth.

“Couldn’t care less,” said John, and caught his mouth again. Sherlock made a noise and, hearing it, flushed more. John drew back a little, still kissing him, and Sherlock scrambled further onto the bed, not to lose contact. Everything had gone a little hazy. He was aware of warmth behind him, someone leaning into him, a hand smoothing his chest that didn’t belong to John. Mary had shifted behind him. He had an instant of unease, and then Mary rubbed at one of his nipples, under his shirt, and he had to break off from snogging John to gasp.

“Fuck,” said John, looking at Sherlock as though he wanted to devour him. Sherlock wanted to make a joke about this, a light pun, but Mary’s clever fingers pinched his other nipple and he couldn’t find words. John moved a hand up from where it was resting on Sherlock’s knee, to cup the soft bulge between his legs, and Sherlock lost his breath.

“Tell me this is OK,” said John, with a trace of command. His hand caressed, firmly. Sherlock’s hips jerked up, into the contact.

Mary was warm and reassuring behind Sherlock, holding him in place. She had started to undo his shirt buttons. He wanted to marvel at how quickly this had happened, how thoroughly _desperate_ he felt, it was disconcerting and horrifying but also _interesting_ ,but he couldn’t frame it properly, everything had narrowed down to the friction between his cock and the warmth of John’s hand.

“ _Yes_ ,” he said. “Don’t stop, don’t – “ John had removed his hand, and was moving purposefully off the bed.

Mary laughed in his ear. “Don’t worry.” John was starting to strip, fast and economically. Sherlock watched, swallowing, letting Mary pull his own shirt off.

“We had sex earlier this evening,” she said, low in his ear. “I’m sure you knew that already. So we’re not desperate. John’s not going to stop, he’s got all the time in the world to do all those things he’s been thinking about.”

Sherlock groaned, his eyes on John’s boxers and the bulge outlined in them. John was looking at Sherlock’s chest, eyes dark.

“You look amazing,” he said, and his eyes went from Sherlock, to Mary.

“Lie down,” said Mary, and she pushed Sherlock gently until he did as she asked and lay on his back, exposed, across the centre of the bed. John crawled onto the bed and kissed him again, hard, while Mary undid his trousers and pulled them and then his socks off. She didn’t try to touch him, though Sherlock felt himself straining for any touch, for release, already. She threw his clothes on the floor and then came and curled up on his other side, running a hand over his chest.

“I’m going to leave this to John, OK?” she said, as John broke off and sat up a little, breathing hard. “I – God – the two of you together, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.” She and John exchanged a quick, heated glance.

Sherlock managed to nod. He was grateful, again, that Mary had read him so easily. John smiled at him, and it was a smile Sherlock hadn’t seen before, extraordinary, all promise and confidence.

Mary sat back a little, though still close, and John moved to straddle Sherlock, bracketing him so that all he could see was John’s face, studying him. John moved downwards, kissing his chest, and then pressed himself to Sherlock so that their cocks were rubbing together, through two thin layers of fabric. Sherlock gasped, and squeezed his eyes shut, gripping John’s sides, yes, just there, just like that –

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock – ” said John, on a breath. “Hold on, I want to – ” He stopped, and Sherlock groaned with frustration, opening his eyes. But John was stripping off his boxer shorts and throwing them on the floor. Sherlock stared at him: he’d seen John naked before, of course, but not like this, not hard and unashamed of it. He wanted… but before he could do anything, he was distracted by John leaning over and kissing just above the edge of Sherlock’s black boxers, then rubbing his face against them.

Sherlock’s breathing broke apart. John’s fingers were teasing under the edge of his boxer shorts, and then one hand was on him, on his flesh, while the other pulled them off; he lifted his hips from the bed to help, and to try to push further into John’s hand. John let go of him to pull the boxers off, and then his hand was back, circling Sherlock loosely, teasing at the head of his cock. It felt entirely unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced. His hips shuddered, outside his control, pleading. He looked down at John, and John looked up, but at Mary. Sherlock had almost forgotten she was there.

“I’ve never done this before,” John said. He licked his lips. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. But I want to, God, I really do.”

“I want you to,” said Mary. Her voice sounded thick. “Christ, John. Maybe if I…?”

John nodded. “Sherlock?” he said. Sherlock hadn’t been paying much attention, too absorbed in John’s touch, but he registered the tone.

“Mary’s going to help me out,” John said. “But just talking, OK? Tell us if it puts you off.”

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, and John laughed, amused. “OK,” he said, determined, and bent and tentatively licked at the head of Sherlock’s cock.

“Fuck,” said Sherlock, surprising himself.

“He likes that,” said Mary. She was talking quickly, to John, though just loudly enough for Sherlock to overhear. “So you can keep doing that, if you want to tease him; lick just there, put one hand here, like that, and then slide down with your mouth – yes, exactly like that, oh, fuck, John – and back up – don’t choke yourself, and use your tongue on the top; vary it a bit – ok, keep that up, he _loves_ that.”

John’s mouth was tight, and hot, and something about the fact that he was acting on Mary’s instructions tipped Sherlock even further over the edge. He put one arm over his mouth to muffle the sounds he was making, shut his eyes tight and clutched at the sheet with the other, blindly. Mary’s hand slid into his and he hung on to it instead, holding on. He felt rather than heard John making a sound too, around him. He couldn’t take much more of this, pleasure was coiling tight within him and his whole body was shivering with tremors, falling into pieces.

“Faster,” said Mary, and John’s movements increased, and Sherlock gripped her hand and bit his arm and tried to remember that he shouldn’t hurt John.

“He’s close, I think,” said Mary, her voice shaky, and John made a muffled noise and held on as Sherlock shook apart, pulsing into his mouth.

He fell back, all his muscles strained and shaking. John pulled off, coughing a bit.

“How did I do?” John said to Mary. His voice was slightly hoarse. Sherlock shivered again.

“You’re a natural,” said Mary. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen – come here _right now_.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, blinked a couple of times at the ceiling and attempted to focus on John and Mary, snogging. John was _very_ hard. His cock brushed Sherlock’s legs as he moved across him to put his arms around Mary. Sherlock willed his limbs to work. Watching John with Mary was – something he had very deliberately not thought about before. It was – good. John had slipped a hand between Mary’s legs.

“God, you’re – “ he said.

“What did you expect.” said Mary. “I want you inside me, will you – “ she glanced at Sherlock, almost apologetically.

“You OK?” said John to him.

“By, umm – “ said Sherlock. His voice was a little cracked. He waved his right hand. “By all means. I’ll – ”  He forced his uncooperative limbs to move, rolling onto his side both to watch and to leave John and Mary more space on the bed. His head had cleared a bit, though his body still hummed with pleasure, so he was able to appreciate the sight of Mary falling back on the bed and pulling John to her, and John pushing up her nightdress and sinking into her with a gasp of relief, his face etched with pleasure.

Sherlock drank it in, avidly. He wanted to put that exact expression on John’s face, but he didn’t begrudge Mary. He had been, he could admit, too surprised by the turn of events, to – He couldn’t have responded properly. But to be able to watch, to note, to commit to memory, maybe for the future, because surely John had implied that he, that they, wanted –

John’s breath was sobbing out, and Mary was making small cries and pushing up against him. They seemed entirely focused on each other. Sherlock wasn’t absolutely sure what the female orgasm looked like, but he could deduce it from Mary’s grip on John tightening, her sharp gasps, and then the relaxation of her muscles. As Sherlock observed, John raised his head from Mary’s shoulder and met his eyes, intent. Sherlock thought of John fucking him like this, John _inside_ him, reducing him, again, to cries and need, and although his body couldn’t respond, the thought sent heat all through him. He stared back at John, and John’s face contorted, he bent his head again, drove into Mary, and that – that was John coming, he was letting Sherlock see, see what he looked like in this moment.

John collapsed into Mary’s arms and hers came up to hold him. They looked right together. A small portion of the ache in Sherlock’s chest returned, and he wondered if he should drag himself off the bed, find his clothes and leave them alone for a while. Assuming he could move. He’d probably fall asleep on the floor.

John heaved himself up after a couple of moments, however, and rolled into the small space between Sherlock and Mary. He threw one leg over Sherlock’s.

“Stay,” he said.

“It’s my room,” said Sherlock. Mary laughed.

“Mmm-hmm,” said John, sleepily. “It’s _our_ wedding night. We’ll sleep where we want.”

“And we want you here,” Mary added, resting her head on John’s chest and speaking across him to Sherlock. “I’m sorry for, well, hogging John at the end there, but you two together are – ” she sighed. “Next time, perhaps?”

John turned to look at Sherlock too, the same question in his face.

Sherlock tried to roll his eyes, though it was a bit half-hearted. He felt, all of a sudden, better than he had in months.

“Yes, fine, you may have been right, I liked it,” he said. “You can be insufferably smug when I’m not here.”

John grinned. “Oh, I am so looking forward to coming back from my honeymoon. Not that I’m not looking forward to the honeymoon as well, love.”

“I’m sure Sherlock could smuggle himself onto the plane,” said Mary.

“No, Sherlock’s going to stay here and imagine all the things we’ll be planning to do to him when we get home. Now that we know he _likes_ it.”

Sherlock tried not to smile. “You might think of everything I could come up with to do to you,” he said. This kind of talk was new to him, but it was gratifying to see John’s eyes widen.

“Oh, I’ll definitely be thinking of that,” said Mary.

John half-hugged her. Sherlock smiled properly, though his eyes drifted down to her stomach. Mary followed the direction of his gaze.

“We know there’ll be things to work out. This is new to all of us,” she said. “But I think it’s worth a try. John?”

“Yes,” said John. “Sorry, what was the question, I passed out for a moment.”

Mary yawned. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll talk tomorrow, and we can always email Sherlock from abroad.”

“Your flight’s at 9am,” said Sherlock. “You need to get up at 7 for the car. You should get some rest.”

“Do you want us to stay here?” said Mary. “Or go back to our room? Either’s fine. John isn’t really asleep.” She thumped John gently on the arm and he opened his eyes.

“M not asleep,” he said.

“I don’t – mind,” said Sherlock. He wasn’t sure. It would have been easier to be alone, but John’s arm was warm against him, and he was _there_ , touching Sherlock all along his length.

“Here, then,” said Mary. “You’re going to be thinking about this all night, aren’t you. I’ll set the alarm for 6:30 but wake us up earlier if you want. Come on, John, under the covers.”

John protested, but let Mary pull the covers down, with Sherlock’s help, and up and over all three of them. Sherlock reached out and switched off the light. Mary curled up behind John, and after some hesitation, John pushed Sherlock onto his side and wrapped an arm around him, his breath huffing into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock stroked John’s arm, astonished again by the heat of another body against his. It felt odd. It felt extraordinary. He was never going to sleep; he would stay awake, as Mary had surmised, processing, categorizing, planning.

He started to walk through his mind palace, thinking about where to put the new room he needed. And then, abruptly, he slept.    


End file.
